White Blood (16 page)

Now the Royal Steward nodded at them. Voerell went first, Whirter at her side. Maryn took a deep breath, settled Barilan securely in her arms, and followed.

The crowd erupted into ecstatic noise. It washed over Maryn like a flood. She hoisted Barilan higher and shrank down behind him. It was the prince everyone greeted with such fervor. She was merely the vehicle for his conveyance, as invisible as the horse he would ride when he was grown to manhood and paraded before his adoring subjects. It was galling to be ignored that way, but at the same time Maryn was glad to take refuge from all those eyes in her anonymity.

Barilan stared around him, his body taut. Maryn had been concerned that the noise might frighten him, but he seemed enthralled by the spectacle. Even this early the prince was learning to enjoy being the object of adulation.

They arrived at the front. Maryn placed her feet carefully so she would not stumble as she ascended the steps. She followed Voerell and Whirter around the table. After the princess took her place to the immediate right of the king’s chair, Whirter next to her, Maryn transferred Barilan into Voerell’s lap. The prince fussed a little and clung to Maryn, but Voerell pried him from her arms and caught his attention with a shiny silver spoon. Mollified, Barilan grabbed it, banged it on the table and waved it about before stuffing it into his mouth. Maryn stepped back and took up her place with the other servants, standing at attention behind the table. She wouldn’t get to participate in the feast. Her only duty was to keep a close watch on Barilan and Voerell, helping the princess with her son in any way she might need.

A trumpet fanfare sounded through the hall. As one, everyone rose and faced the rear. Maryn couldn’t see well for the line of tall bodies before her, but she leaned to the side until she could peer between Whirter and Carlich. King Froethych paraded down the center aisle, nodding to the assembled nobles, occasionally stopping to take a hand and exchange a few words with a favored guest. It took him a long time to advance all the way through the room to the dais. Maryn wasn’t the only one shifting from foot to foot by the time he arrived. Voerell bounced Barilan, trying to keep him happy. At last Froethych squeezed his rotund form around the back of the table and into the grand, ornate chair at the center. As he sat, the music came to an exultant climax and halted. Everyone else sank into their seats.

A new, more reverent piece of music began. A delegation of priests from the cathedral paced slowly down the aisle, chanting a solemn hymn in the ancient tongue. Prelate Kiellan brought up the rear. Maryn recognized him from the times she’d accompanied Voerell and Barilan to Sabbath services. He was an elderly man, but hale, with a full head of thick white hair beneath the red and gold cap of his office. Maryn had always liked the way he laid his gentle hand of blessing on her head as well as Voerell’s and Barilan’s, his voice the same musical flow of unintelligible words for each of them.

Kiellan led the assembly in a series of prayers and responsive liturgies. For the most part it was the same as any Sabbath service; Maryn echoed the ritual phrases automatically along with everyone else. At one point, while Kiellan read a long passage from the Holy Scriptures regarding the duty a king held toward his people, Barilan seemed about to erupt into loud, disruptive wails. Maryn was ready to swoop in and take him from Voerell to soothe him, but Carlich was quicker. He flicked his knife and waved into existence a fountain of the blue sparks Barilan loved so much, hiding them from the crowd below the edge of the table. Whirter pushed his chair back to allow Carlich to extend the bright magical display past him. Barilan grabbed at the swarming blue fireflies, completely distracted from whatever discomfort had bothered him. Voerell bit her lip and glanced down the table at the Wonorans on the far side of the king, but didn’t protest.

After a very long time the preliminary rituals were complete, and the main portion of the ceremony arrived. Prelate Kiellan summoned the participants forward. Maryn scooted back to let them pass as they made their way around the long table and took up their places immediately in front of it. The Prelate stood in the center, King Froethych on his right, Voerell, with Whirter beside her, holding Barilan on his left.

“We have come today to witness the investiture of Prince Barilan Sompirla;-;Rottolla as heir to the kingdom of Milecha.” Kiellan had to pause to allow the crowd’s response to die down.

“By the grace and favor of the Holy One, the magic of the Kingship has endured since it was created by the Blessed Milech, founder and first king of Milecha, by the shedding of his blood. Continually renewed by the blood of those who bear it, the Kingship has passed in an unbroken line from king to king, down through the centuries, until this day. Even when tragedy disrupted the direct line of succession, the Kingship passed safely to those the people of Milecha deemed worthy. Now the current bearer of this sacred trust comes before you to bind the blood of a new generation into the spell.”

Once again Kiellan waited for the applause to wane before continuing. “King Froethych, do you acknowledge Barilan as a true;-;born heir of your body, rightful member of the Sompirla dynasty through your daughter Voerell? Do you purpose to grant him a place in the line of succession to the Kingship of Milecha, after yourself, your son Prince Marolan Sompirla, and your son Prince Carlich Sompirla?”

“I do.” The king accompanied his words with a decisive nod.

“And do you, Princess Voerell, speaking for your son Prince Barilan, acknowledge and accept his responsibility to take up the crown of Milecha, should it pass to him in turn?”

“I do.”

“And if the crown should come to Prince Barilan before he reaches the age of twenty years, do you, Princess Voerell Sompirla;-;Rottolla, agree to serve as regent, acting in all respects as his representative, governing Milecha in his name, renewing the Kingship with your blood at the appointed times, and surrendering your position when Barilan comes of age?”

What? Maryn leaned forward to get a better look. During the run;-;through of the ceremony, Prelate Kiellan had rehearsed the regency portion with Barilan’s father. Could the prelate have made a mistake? No, he appeared serene as he waited for an answer.

Voerell looked from Prelate Kiellan to King Froethych, astonished. “Father? I thought Whirter…” She turned to her husband. Whirter grinned and shook his head, gesturing toward the king.

Froethych beamed at his daughter, pleased with the effect of his surprise. He leaned forward. Just loud enough for Maryn to catch above the excited buzz of the crowd, he murmured, “The law might not allow me to make you my heir, but you deserve the honor every bit as much as your brothers. And nothing forbids a female regent. Likely it will only ever be a formality, but I trust you to fulfill the responsibility admirably, if—may the Holy One forbid—the need should ever arise.”

The idea of a woman wielding the power of the Kingship, even in her son’s name, unsettled Maryn. Queens might occasionally rule foreign lands, but that had never been the case in Milecha. She knew Voerell was strong and intelligent and well versed in the politics of the kingdom, but even so….

Others shared her misgivings, she saw. Throughout the hall, people leaned over to whisper to their neighbors, or studied the tableau on the dais with thoughtful or concerned expressions. At the high table, Marolan and Dolia murmured to each other. When Maryn glanced at Carlich he was sitting up tensely straight, his brows drawn together and his eyes unfocused. But in a moment he shrugged, relaxed, and returned his gaze to his sister, assuming a pleased expression.

Voerell blushed and stammered. “Father, I—I don’t know what to say…”

He jerked his head toward Kiellan, smiling. “Answer the Prelate.”

Voerell collected herself and drew herself up to her full height. Proudly, her voice ringing through the hall, she proclaimed, “I do.”

Kiellan nodded in acknowledgement, smiling a little. With measured, dramatic movements, he withdrew a small gold knife from its sheath at his waist. “Give me your hand, my king. Princess, your hand and your son’s.”

Froethych extended his hand, palm up. Voerell grabbed Barilan’s wrist and placed their hands into her father’s. Barilan squirmed and fought her, but she hung on tight and refused to let him wrench his arm free. Barilan began to shriek in protest.

Maryn crossed her arms and pressed them to her breasts as her milk responded to Barilan’s cries. She knew this was a vital part of the ceremony, but she still hated it. At least it would be over quickly.

Above the baby’s screams, Kiellan’s voice rose in the incantation to the Holy One. He didn’t rush, but it rolled swiftly from his tongue, and within a few moments he proceeded into the specific part of the spell. His knife flicked, opening a small cut in the king’s palm, a matching one in Voerell’s, and a tiny prick on Barilan’s finger. Maryn winced.

Blue lightning crackled around the three of them, as the buzz of magic vibrated through the hall. A soft halo of light formed around each of their heads. Froethych’s glow outlined and illumined the crown on his head, the same that had rested on the head of each of the kings of Milecha since long before the beginning of the Sompirla dynasty. A bright image of that crown shone over Barilan’s spiky blond hair. Fainter, but still distinct, another copy appeared above Voerell’s head. Barilan’s cries, which had spiked loud with the pain of the knife’s touch, died away. His eyes and mouth grew round as he gazed at the shining apparitions.

The residual power of the shed blood burned up in a burst of sparkles when Kiellan spoke the concluding words, and the images vanished. Froethych beamed. As Kiellan stepped back, polishing his knife on the soft cloth that hung from his sash, Froethych flung his arms wide and engulfed Voerell and Barilan in a great embrace. Cheers erupted from the watching assembly.

Maryn applauded with the rest. To her surprise, she found tears stinging her eyes. Froethych’s love for his daughter and grandson was so evident. She blinked them away.

At length the commotion died down. Froethych, Whirter, and Voerell came back around the table and resumed their seats. Barilan, tired and hungry and aware once again of the pain in his hand now that the entrancing lights were gone, began to bawl. Voerell passed him with a thankful sigh to Maryn, who stepped back to her place among the other servants and settled him in to nurse. She checked his diaper with a practiced finger. Slightly damp, but not messy; nothing that couldn’t wait until later.

A line of dignitaries formed and began to process up the center aisle. Representatives of all the districts and landholdings and towns in Milecha filed to the front of the hall and presented their gifts to the infant heir. A great variety of precious goods and fine workmanship was displayed to the crowd before servants bore them away. Furs and gems, silver and gold. Weapons of every sort: swords, spears, shields, bows and arrows. Examples of every type of craft: wrought metal, carved wood, glass, pottery, embroidery, weaving.

Maryn swallowed and looked away when the delegation from Ralo came forward. She’d tried to prepare herself to face this moment, but still grief welled up, tightening her throat and stinging her eyes. This day should have meant so much for her and Edrich and Frilan. She and her husband had spoken together often of the prince’s heirship ceremony, when Edrich’s talent would at last be fully recognized, and all their struggles and sacrifices would be richly repaid. She remembered snuggling against Edrich’s side in front of their hearth, Frilan on her lap nursing, heads bent close together as they spun out fantasies of what they would buy with all the money that would be theirs once Edrich’s tapestries hung in every castle and manor in Milecha.

Though she struggled to keep her emotion hidden, a few tears escaped from the corners of her eyes, and she had to awkwardly support Barilan with one arm while she swiped them away. She scowled at the big swath of fabric the delegation from Ralo proudly unrolled to display to the king. It was a bland, generic tapestry in no way comparable to Edrich’s lost masterpiece. The woodland scene and band of hunters pursuing a stag seemed superficially pleasant enough, but Maryn’s experienced eye easily picked out the uneven threads, dull colors, and unbalanced composition. It must have been made in a sloppy rush by one of the weavers who resided outside the burned sector where most of the best tapestry artists had lived. Her disdain for the stiff, unnatural position of the stag’s legs and the asymmetrical spread of his antlers helped distract her until the worst of the pain passed.

After that it was just a matter of enduring the long, boring procession. Barilan fell asleep. She slipped him off her breast and adjusted her clothing, but Voerell was engaged in animated conversation with the king and her husband, so Maryn continued to hold Barilan. She propped him on her shoulder and swayed back and forth.

Carlich got up and strolled over to stand behind Marolan’s chair, where he struck up a conversation with Dolia. There was something strangely taut about the way he held himself, as if poised for action. Remembering her speculation about his plans, Maryn watched him closely. Was he going to flirt with Dolia right in front of the whole court? But no, he kept his attentions well within the bounds of what was appropriate, merely making witty observations about the gathered dignitaries and the offered gifts. Dolia laughed. Marolan looked as if he would like to shove his brother off the dais, but only sat and glowered.

At long last the presentations were complete. Servants cleared away the last of the gifts and began to bring out the first course of the feast. A steward bore tall gold goblets of wine to the high table, served the king first, and moved down the line of dignitaries.

Carlich leaned over and snagged Marolan’s cup. He took an exaggerated swig. “Ah, I’ve been waiting far too long for that.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Hey!” Marolan was obviously deeply annoyed, but he forced a genial laugh. “Get your own!” He waved toward Carlich’s seat, beyond the king, where Carlich’s goblet waited.